There are certain things you have to accept if you’re going to live in an old, beamy barn in the countryside. One is that there will be more dust than you can conceive possible and no matter how many times you clean it – yes, yes, using a slightly damp cloth – it will all just settle again, utterly unbothered by your wafting and wiping.
Another is that you will have mice. Probably lots of mice. Possibly loads of mice. When it’s -5 outside and the choice is between a nice little nook under the hawthorn hedge and a nice little nook under your kitchen cupboards, believe me, mice don’t have to be asked twice. Which is a bore and pretty disgusting and gives you a little shiver when you think about it, but once you’ve mastered setting a trap without getting your fingers broken, you can carry on pretty much as normal. Especially when they appear to disappear overnight, even though you’ve failed to catch a single one.
Except. The time to worry about mice is when they seem to magically vanish. Because that probably means they’ve been eaten by a rat. A $&*%^#@ RAT. In your KITCHEN. Where you EAT YOUR FOOD.
They say that in London you are never more than six feet from a rat. Oh, really? Then how come in 38 years of living there I saw exactly ONE – and that was in the street? Five minutes in Nowhere and I’m running a bloody rodent hostel. Seems to me that there are some alternative rat facts out there…